


Skyrim Legacy

by MrSnydeStoried



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Gods, Immortality, Magic, My First Fanfic, Nostalgia, Politics, Post-Canon, The Dragonborn Is Dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21958039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSnydeStoried/pseuds/MrSnydeStoried
Summary: The Dragonborn was a good man. He used the might of his arm, the skill of his mind, and the power of his will to become the most powerful and most beloved man in the world. He ascended to lead factions and brought peace and prosperity to Skyrim, and to his own household. He faded into a glorious death and was hailed as a hero. For Lucia, however, he was not just a hero, but her father. Now, after his death, a messenger arrives at her doorstep to inform her of a sinister plot to conquer Nirn; a plot that requires her help to stop. Now she must take up her father's journey, and unite with his old allies, and some new friends save her legacy and the world.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ysolda, Lucia/Talvas Fathryon, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana
Kudos: 15





	Skyrim Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> My first Work! open to criticism or comment, I'm just starting out and this is kind of a dusty fandom, but I will do my best to make it good.

The winter wind howled fiercely outside the walls of Lakeview Manor. Plaid, fluffy flakes of snow whipped around the perimeter of the building, alighting upon the various protrusions adding a layer of radiant white to all surfaces. The icy flurry searched out the perimeter like a blind man feeling his way in the dark, searching for any weakness, any opening in which it could come to rest. The solitary opening to the cavernous interior was a grey monolith of a chimney, from which the wavering shield of warmth emanated repulsing the intruding blizzard. The feeble column smoke seemed to be the only thing alive in the desolate blanket of ice. Despite the cold dark of the winter’s night, vibrant pillars of sunny, golden light emanated from the crystalline coated windows. Looking through the windows, one would see what seemed to be a young woman caring for an ailing parent. The old man was bent and balding, his white beard hung from his face, meeting the few wisps of pale hair clinging to his iridescent, liver-spotted skull. When juxtaposed to the sickly old man, the young woman was a perfect picture of life. Her short, well kept blonde hair ended at the hem of her priestly robe. A talented observer would be able to perceive the subtle glint of a sheathed dagger strapped to her hip. Her piercing brown eyes gazed shrewdly from the deep recesses of her sockets, despite the wizened, cunning glint to her eyes, her smile was bright and inviting, not unlike the fire she so faithfully attended.

“Lucia?” The old man croaked, blinking heavily as he attempted to focus her face in his vision.  
“I’m here Lewyn,” She responded, kneeling to look the old man in the face. “What is it you need?”  
His glassy eyes looked towards her with a pathetic, mournful expression.  
“Lucia?” he repeated, “When is your father coming home? He’s bringing mead.”  
“He’s not coming home Lewyn. He’s gone.” She could tell that her words made no impact on the older man, she sighed. “Never mind, he’ll be home soon, don’t worry.”  
“Good,” he sighed, staring unseeing at some point beyond and behind her. “I have ten septums on that bet.” He laughed almost sardonically.  
His eyes glazed over once more, focusing on some time and place long removed from the present moment. Almost in a dream, he muttered something about the firsts song he ever learned before breaking out into disjointed sections of Ragnar the Red. As he was mumbling a line about gold Ragnar had made, Lucia rose and drifted away from him. She sighed as she mounted the dry old stairs of the house, listening to the familiar creek as she climbed. She leaned against the wall, reveling in the oddly satisfying feeling of the cold seeping through the planks, listening to the orchestra of the wind moaning outside. She began to slowly prowl the perimeter of the upper story, absorbing the familiar sights and scents of the derelict manor. As the wind whistled and Lewin lilted, she ghosted into her room. She sat on the bed, too tired even for sleep. After all, sleep was of little avail in moments like these; moments when the length of the shadows, the dim echoes of song, the whistling of the wind evoked within her a intangible and immortal part of the human psyche, an impression of unrest and unease unabated by company, or comfort, or warmth. In that gloom, the twilight, she could feel more than ever her isolation, she was cut off from everyone, even, to some degree at least, from herself. It was moments like these, with fatigue unmitigated by sleep, with a cold unaided by heat and hunger that no food or drink could satisfy, in these moments Lucia felt, small, for lack of a better term. She was so utterly alone, in the dark, in the cold, in a house as thoroughly dead as its builder. She was alone, until destiny, both figuratively and literally knocked on her door.


End file.
